On Loving a Dove
by Magi Silverwolf
Summary: "New York, 1943. The White Dove. I loved her. More than the hottie at SCIU." Nikola watched as Helen kept walking. He told himself that it was fine. For all that Helen and James had arranged his death, neither of them understood why he had finally agreed to die. It was fine. Everyone leaves in the end. His dove was just one in a crowd. (Legacies)
1. The Woman with No Name

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warning:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Author's Note(s):** This story was written for The Advent Challenge hosted by the Facebook page May We Write. The Challenge is to write a ficlet of any size each day leading up to Christmas. It started today and the last part will be done on Christmas Eve. This story will be posted on both FFN and AO3.

 **Song Recommendation** : "Chains/Drag Me Down (Acoustic Mashup)" by Megan Davies & Jaclyn Davies

-= LP =-

On Loving a Dove

Part 01: The Woman with No Name

-= LP =-

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

– Lord Byron, _She Walks in Beauty_

-= LP =-

 _New York, United States of America, December 1942_

"You know, if you keep drinking like that, you'll end up in the Hudson."

Nikola glanced up from where he had been scribbling down equations into his notebook. That single look made him look again and for longer. The woman standing beside his table was beautiful, but he had seen beautiful women from all over the world. He was good friends with Helen Magus, after all, and occasionally assisted with her Sanctuary. He had met _actual_ sirens and succubae, women who could stop a man's breath with a whisper. Yet something about this woman was _arresting_. Even Helen, beautiful and brilliant Helen, was a pale imitation of perfection compared to the raven-haired woman before him. He was staring, but she didn't fidget under his gaze. Instead, her emerald gaze stayed fixated on his face, watching him as he assessed her.

Finally, he forced himself to move—to close his notebook and reach for his glass of lager. The gulp was absolutely vile, but this tavern did not stock any wine worth noting. Drinking it had been more for effect than for pleasure. Right now, it was safer for him to stay in crowds as much as possible. Governments were just so testy about him trying to make a profit. Barkeeps were just as testy about patrons who sat for hours and bought nothing. Hence the drink, and why he forced himself to empty the glass every half hour or so. It wasn't like the alcohol was going to make him drunk.

She moved just a few steps forward to lean against the rough wood of the table. He could now feel the heat of her body as it radiated off her. The dark scent of her filled his senses, intoxicating him in a way that even emptying James' impressive wine stocks couldn't. It clung to the back of his throat like blood mixed with wine. She slid her left hand from his wrist to his shoulder before brushing it over the ridge of his clavicle and the edge of his throat's hollow.

"It gets dark so early this time of year," she whispered, her voice pitched just right to still be heard over the fools playing billiards across the tavern but still exclude any potential eavesdroppers. "And my apartment is so cold." Her fingers, delicate but with odd calluses, rubbed his adam's apple briefly before carding into the loose curls which brushed against the back of his neck. The light was now directly behind her, which turned her dark hair into a dark red halo. Interest was so thickly mutual between them that it was like a physical aura. His mouth went dry as she bent to breathe her next words against his lips. "It would be warmer with another person, don't you think?"

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Is it working?"

"In the interest of fair play," Nikola said, hating the little voice that nagged like James and demanded this, "I should warn you that I'm not nearly as drunk as one would think." Her tongue flicked across his lips before she replied.

"Good; then you should be able to keep up."

"Are you going to try to kill me?"

"Oh, yes," she declared huskily, "at least twice before the night is over. Maybe three times, if you are as good as you look like you are."

"Darling, I'm always good," Nikola vowed. The other members of the Five would have scoffed, but this wonder of a woman just laughed. It was bright and clear like a bell but soft like the cooing of a dove. She gave his lips a darting peck of a kiss which finished with another flick of her tongue. She straightened a bit, giving him space to breathe again, while keeping her hip pressed against the table. Her eyes sparkled with mirth.

"Not a humble man, are you?"

"I don't do humble."

"I can see that," she stated. "So what do you _do_ that would give you such confidence?"

"The impossible," he quipped without hesitation. Her soft smile transformed into a grin which showed off her sharp incisors. The emerald of her irises had darkened to almost black and the hand in his hair tightened briefly. The teasing interest she had displayed before had turned predatorial. It would have made a lesser man feel intimidated.

"I bet you do," she agreed readily. "Take me home."

"Why?"

"Because it's Christmas, and you'll make a nice gift to myself."


	2. The Intercession of St Jude

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.

 **Warning:** This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers.

 **Author's Note(s):** This story was written for The Advent Challenge hosted by the Facebook page May We Write. The Challenge is to write a ficlet of any size each day leading up to Christmas. It started today and the last part will be done on Christmas Eve. This story will be posted on both FFN and AO3.

–It should also be noted that there have been a few edits to the first part of this as of the posting of this part. The problem with a challenge which asks for both creation and posting in the same day is that things tend to slip through the quick proof, including the occasional setting error.

 **Song Recommendation** : "Become the Beast" by Karliene

-= LP =-

On Loving a Dove

Part 02: The Intercession of St. Jude

-= LP =-

Said I to God: "Pale Sister Grief,

Bleak Brother Pain,

Bedevil me beyond belief,

And Death's unfairn—"

Said God: "Curse not that blessed Three,

Poor human clod!

Have faith! Believe the One with Me,"

Said God.

– Robert William Service, _Dark Trinity_

-= LP =-

 _London, England, December 1942_

Nikola woke slowly. That had been a rare commodity over the last few months as it seemed that in addition to governments being upset about his Peace Ray concept, he had gotten onto the radar of seemingly every spy organization and assassin guild on the planet. This will probably _not_ end with a Nobel. There was a positive outcome to it all though, and that outcome was currently using him as a pillow. The warm weight of her against his side was better than the finest wine.

It was hard to believe that he had met her less than two weeks ago. That first weekend they had barely left her bedroom. It had been refreshingly honest—finding someone who didn't deny themselves something just because it was primal instead of intellectual or based upon some outdated sense of moral shame. In between rounds, of which there had been many including the three before dawn, he had learned his companion's name and that she held a depth of knowledge that rivaled even Helen's. She had claimed it was Christmas, come early, when he had kept up with her both in passion and conversation. They had spent more than a few hours speaking in the shared language of their home country before succumbing to other more physical interests. Nikola was no stranger to lust, especially not since the experiment with the Source Blood had revealed the full force of his heritage. Helen's medication took the edge of the bloodlust, as it had been designed, but it did nothing for the other types. But it seemed that he found his match in Melanthe Samuels, in more ways than one.

When a group of assassins had attacked the apartment she had taken them to after their initial meeting, Melanthe had revealed yet another side. In the time it had taken him to deal with one attacker, she had taken out the other four with the same grace she had shown in all her movements. She had then grabbed his hand and teleported them away from the place to another apartment in another country. With quick hands, she had searched him for wounds. It was only after confirming that he was unharmed that she spoke.

"What _did_ you do to earn a death warrant?"

"What makes you think they were for me?"

"Oh, _tigre moj_ ," she had said as she shook her head, "if they had been for me, they would have been quieter and not nearly as stupid."

Melanthe's hands had caressed his bare sides. It had distracted him from his attempt to play innocent. After his explanation of his Peace Ray attempt, she had made sure that he was thoroughly punished and then began organizing things around the flat for their safety. Being one of the Five, the fact that she had transported them across the Pond to New York City was less shocking to him than she apparently expected it to be. If he had never seen John do that trick and even been a tagalong on more than a few trips, he could see how it would have been, but he _had_ and frankly, Melanthe was much smoother about it than John.

What had been shocking was the realization of what it all could mean—the prowess with combat, the intelligence, the teleportation, the matching libidos and recovery times. In desperation to prove his hypothesis, he had challenged the authority he had been more than willing to let her wield. The resulting pushback had been something he had been convinced that he would never be able to have. It was vicious and messy and glorious. Finally, he had understood that the term _bloodsong_ meant. The rush of blood in his veins as lust and bloodlust blended with each drop of hers upon his tongue truly felt like the whole universe was singing in harmony.

It had only eleven days, but already it felt like his world revolved around his dark beauty. To him, she brought peace and hope. He had been so alone, being the only living vampire—even if Helen's constant reminder of being only _part_ vampire could be considered true. By her very existence, Melanthe challenged that and in doing so, challenged him in ways that he had not been in more years than he cared to count, if ever. She was his Balm of Gilead, which healed his wounded soul. She was his White Dove to lead him to safety. She didn't just tolerate his ego—she matched it and had no problem keeping it in check. She kept _him_ in check, if only by keeping him too occupied to get into trouble.

"You're thinking too loudly," Melanthe complained sleepily, bringing him out of his reminiscing. She shifted so that her leg was draped over his waist and her head propped up on a hand. The slide of her skin against his immediately turned his thoughts lurid. The curve of her sultry pout and the darken green of her eyes spoke volumes of how well she knew what he was thinking. "What has your brain buzzing, _kralju moj_?"

" _Volim te,_ " Nikola confessed in the language of his childhood. He hadn't thought about his feelings in those terms before, but the moment the words were out, he could see their truth. He repeated the declaration in English. "I love you—more with every day. If I believed in the phenomenon, I would say that I feel in love the first moment I laid eyes upon you."

"About time you caught up, _kralju moj_ ," she replied. Gracefully, she shifted until she was straddling his hips. When he moved to place his hands on her hips, she grabbed both wrists to pin them beside his head. She curved above him, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain. When she spoke next, her voice held a seductive husk. " _Ž_ _elim te._ "

The world exploded around them, deterring any plan to act upon Melanthe's declaration. Even as they sprung into combat with the group charging through the new hole in the wall, Nikola had the urge to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of once more being caught naked by people intent on killing him. This group was both more skilled and more determined than the group which had driven them from New York. They still went down, but not without getting a few solid hits on both of them. Nikola obeyed Melanthe's snapped command to dress afterwards with only a single groan of complaint, making sure to keep her in his sight as she checked the bodies of their attackers for clues of their origin.

" _Jebati_ ," she cursed. In a whirlwind of motion, she abandoned the body she had been searching to dress herself and pull a black messenger bag from under the bed along with a bandoleer filled with small glass vials alternated with seax-styled blades. Before he could question her, she had ahold of his arm and they were gone. She didn't take them far this time—judging by the numerous bookstores, Nikola would say that they were somewhere near Westminster. Melanthe took his face in both her hands, forcing him to look her in the eyes. The green was entirely hidden under vampiric black. "Listen, because we may not have much time. It's the Triple Crowns, the _cabalis nocturnum_. Do _not_ let them catch you. Do you understand? They would take everything of you, every little piece, and they will enjoy doing it. It would not be death, but destruction more complete than that. _Žao mi je, tako mi je žao. Ovo je moja krivica._ If I tell you to go, you need to—"

"No, that's not—"

"Oh, my sweet king, you think that is a choice?" She pulled him down so that she could kiss him, silencing his protest far more effectively than merely interrupting him had. As with every other time, his senses became intoxicatedly centered on her. She fit perfectly in his arms, small and slight but oh, so dynamically powerful just the same. For a single wonderful moment, he became lost in her, in the bloodsong they sang together. All worries and fear from being hunted faded into meaningless background noise.

She broke off the kiss with a sudden gasp. He mistook it for being overwhelmed for a brief instant before he felt the slickness flowing down her back and over his fingers. The taste of iron grew thick in the air even as she began to slump heavily in his grasp. He denied what was happening. His agile mind was going over calculations, comparing healing factors to the amount of damage. They had their differences in ability, but surely, she had enough—was strong enough for this. He couldn't lose her. He felt her fingers brushing against his cheeks, spreading out the moisture which had gathered there. Nikola heard his chant of denial as if he was far away. She placed two fingers against his lips, stilling his protest even as her other hand centered over his heart.

" _Volim te_ ," she whispered, her voice thin and weak, " _više od života_. _Žao mi je._ "

Then he felt the sensation he associated with her teleportation ability. When it was gone, he was alone in another place. He ran his blood-covered hands through his hair, tugging uselessly at it as he struggled with the urge to scream—in rage at her saving him but not herself, at the mysterious Triple Crowns for hunting them, at himself for drawing the attention of every government and spy agency in the world, no matter how brilliant a plan it had been. It was _not_ despair at losing her, because that would mean that she was gone and she _couldn't be_. He had a taste now—he had filled the lonely void within his soul with the food of her presence. He could not return to starvation. His Dove could not be gone.

In the stone sewers of London, a single cry of anguish could echo a surprisingly long time.


End file.
